


we don't need another hero

by NumiTuziNeru



Category: Star Stable Online
Genre: (also: tw for bad attempts at old norse), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, who needs canon when you can have gratuitous magical violence?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-22 11:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12480220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumiTuziNeru/pseuds/NumiTuziNeru
Summary: Ronja Thorinsson is not a hero. Scruffy runaway foster home kids with a history of petty crime and anger issues don’t get to be heroes. That’s a job reserved for normal, well-adjusted adults with nice hair and a surplus of bravery.The universe, however, seems to have other ideas.





	1. himinioðurr

 

a long time ago

aideen said to me

_for a new world to be born, the old one must burn_


	2. samanrenna

**november 13th, 2002**

**01:23 am**

 

Surrounded by the polished-chrome medical-white walls of a Jorvik City hospital, a girl was born; a small ugly thing, blotchy and pink and wrinkled, dark hair sticking up like wires, already wriggling in the hands of the nurses. She opened her half-blind eyes to a field of pure, sterile light, took her first breath, opened her tiny red mouth — and began to scream.

 

_ and then _

 

In a field on the other side of the island, a mare grey as moonlight watched as her still-bloodied foal struggled to take his first steps on legs too long for him. He nearly managed to stand, trembling, before stumbling back down onto the grass with a small cry. Gently, the mare nudged his side, beckoning him to try, try again, until finally he stood long enough to find her udder and latch on. 

 

_ at once _

 

On a fishing boat in the storm-ravaged North Sea, the nets hauled up something else among the thousands of dead fish; something shapeless, formless, smelling like death and rotting blood. It thrashed wildly across the deck, sending equipment flying, before it hurled itself back into the black water. When the fishermen slept, they dreamed of songs in tongues that made their stomachs turn.

 

_ up above _

 

A star shot across the sky, bright and blazing and beautiful. No one saw it; no one but an astronomer in the mountains, a sleepless little city girl with bright red hair and dreams of music. It burst across the horizon like a dying sun, and faded.

 

_ except _

 

Somewhere, sometime, where neither of those words had meaning, a small blue creature turned its eyes skywards. Sparks flew from his fur, minutes and seconds and cold flame. In the black-velvet firmament he saw infinities unfurl; a thousand histories, a thousand names, all coalesce into one

singular

point

 

_ elsewhere _

 

Between the linings, between worlds, someone opened their eyes for the first time

looked out onto a boundless, shifting heliotrope landscape in endless colours, endless chatoyant clouds, endless islands

and thought, ‘this is home.’

 

_ and _

 

Under the sea, under the earth, the end of the world dreamed of a burning girl.


	3. the runaway

 

 

_‘Of course, as is the nature of such stories, there is great debate as to whether Aideen truly existed [...] Due to the metaphorical nature of many Norse texts, that the ‘wind-riding life-bringer of the skies’ may simply have been a meteorite, rather than the alleged girl on horseback. There is mention, however, of a woman named Áiðen in the Járls Konungasögur, though whether the two are related is unknown.’_

_—_ Oskar Larchwood; _Jorvik: A History in Legends (Revised Edition 1992)_

__

 

 

Ronja had been having the dream ever since she could remember.

It always started out the same way. She’d be running through deep, dark woods, nothing but endless trees like a sea of emerald, mossy rocks and soft rotting bark underfoot. Sometimes it was raining in those woods; other times, the whole scene was bathed in a strange pinkish-purple light, like an alien planet. She wasn’t lost, though, that much she knew. Rather, it always felt as thought she was searching for something — even though she didn’t know what.

Then, as the woods seemed to grow deeper and darker around her until it was almost completely black, she’d break through into a tiny clearing. In that clearing, there would be a shimmering pond, and by that pond there would be a horse.

It was always the same horse, too. Grey as silver, pale dapples on its flanks and a dark mane. It looked at her with soft brown eyes that gleamed with intelligence, and silent words seemed to hang in the air between them. It would lead her to a mossy stone, and she’d clamber up onto its back and grip its mane in her fists,

and whisper _go_ under her breath.

And it would leap straight into a gallop, sparks flying as its hooves struck the ground. It was faster than anything, faster than a howling wind or storm-tossed river, and the trees would pass by in a dark blur. It was frightening, almost, but in a good way; like being on the best thrill ride of your life.

She’d always loved that part. She wasn’t ever scared, because she knew the horse would never let her fall. Everything would narrow down into just the wind stinging her face and hair whipping against her cheeks and the warmth of the horse’s body against hers as she held on to its dappled neck, and the only thing she felt was _free._

Sometimes others would join her, too. They were always the same ones; a bright golden pony and a girl wreathed in lightning, a fair woman in white on her silver Pegasus, a horse the colour of bronze with its moonlit rider, a girl with blazing red hair riding a unicorn as bright as the stars. Ronja didn’t know them at all, not even from books, but somehow she felt that they were friends, in a way.

Then, right ahead of them, a sudden cliff would come rushing up to meet them. The horse wouldn’t slow at all, though — right as the edge of stone turned into a great drop into nothingness, he’d just lift his legs and _jump—_

_The sound of the door opening woke her up. The light went on in the living room. Ronja hunched down under her blanket, eyes squeezed shut._

_‘Oh, whoops, I forgot I’d left her tucked up on the sofa,’ her mother hissed. ‘Funny little thing, isn’t she? Doesn’t look a thing like me. Oh well, come on, out we go. You’d better go home, love. Yes, I know, But it can’t be helped.’_

_There was a horrible male mumbling, some slurping noises, another giggle._

_‘Naughty! No! Shush now, we’ll wake the kid.’_

_Ronja breathed as slowly as evenly as she could. The man was mumbling again._

_‘Oh, that sounds like fun… though I guess I should stay with the kid, it’s late…’_

_Mumble mumble._

_‘Oh alright, you’ve twisted my arm. Come on, then.’_

_Her eyes were stIll shut tight, but she couldn’t stop them from leaking. It was alright though. They didn’t see. They weren’t looking at her._

 

She never told anyone about that dream. Not her mother. Not the social workers, or the caretakers at the foster home, or even any of the other children there who were all too busy surviving. Not to her teachers, who rolled their eyes and tutted every time she muddled her words and lost her concentration in lessons until she’d given up completely. Not to the few people who could’ve been friends, maybe, if you were desperate enough, right before they sent bricks hurling into someone’s window. And certainly not to the police officers, who brought her before the headmaster and told him the story that finally got her excluded from the school she’d always hated.

No. No one. It was Ronja’s dream, and nobody else’s. She held onto it like a priceless jewel, nestled safely in the corners of her mind.

She thought about it now as she put the home caretaker’s wallet back into her handbag, twenty shillings held firmly in her balled-up fist. Guilt thrummed in every heartbeat, and she wondered somewhere if the riders from that dream would hate her now, if they knew her. She would’ve thought the whole dream could’ve been a metaphor, if she’d ever cared about metaphors.

Her heavy sports bag thumped against her legs as she walked across the kitchen, though she was trying to stay as quiet as possible. Everything she owned was in that bag — at least, all the important things. Sometimes she wondered what it was like to need an entire van for one’s belongings, but figured she’d never need to worry about that. Still, the thought made her eyes sting.

She grabbed a nearby jotter and pen and scribbled down a note. It got a bit smeared and blotchy, but there wasn’t time to write out another one. She had to let them know she wasn’t a thief, not really.

 _Its ok Hanne. Don’t wory about me. I’ll be fine. I took 20_ _~~sch~~ _ _shilings for traveling but I’ll save up and send it back, promise._

_Thanks for evrything_

_Ronja_

Then she walked out, closing the front door ever so slowly.

Then she ran.

And ran and ran and **_ran._ **

 

* * *

 

_‘Attention all passengers; the 16:30 bus to Silverglade will be arriving soon. Please ensure you have taken all your baggage with you…’_

Ronja shuffled her feet awkwardly and stared down at the leaflet in her hand.

 **MOORLAND STABLES** , it said at the top in bright orange WordArt letters, and she had to bite her lip and think hard to read the rest;

 _Bored of barbeques? Longing for adventure?? Then sign up for **MOORLAND STABLES SUMMER CAMP!** A fun and exiting chance to learn all there is about _ (a long word she couldn’t read) _, stable care and so much more!!_

  * _Lessons for all stages, from complete beginenrs to total pros!_


  * _Go on thrilling rides across beautiful Moorland!_


  * _Meet lots of great new friends — some with four legs!_



The whole leaflet looked a bit like something you’d expect a kid in their first computers lesson to design; pixellated photographs of smiling children next to bored-looking horses, typos, ugly-looking gradients, the works — but Ronja didn’t really mind.

The attention-deficit part of her brain, though, started imagining what that person must’ve been thinking as they made it. ‘Oh, I just don’t get this newfangled nonsense,’ they said, as they moved a picture slightly to the left and made the entire page go haywire. They had greying hair, she liked to think, and big Coke-bottle glasses. Though she couldn’t really talk, she was useless at computers — they seemed to revolt whenever she so much as sneezed next to one. Maybe it was a curse? Maybe it was one of those curses that random people had, like red hair or bendy elbows, only it was being bad at technology—

_‘The bus to Silverglade is now approaching. Please stand clear.’_

Ronja leapt up from her seat so hard she nearly sent all her things flying.

Before her, the blue-green bus drew to a halt with a clunk, before opening its doors and releasing all its passengers. Ronja waited as they streamed past, let a few other people go in front of her,then hopped up the tall steps into the coach herself. No one seemed at all concerned about a girl her age being out alone this early — thankfully, she supposed — and the driver didn’t even give her a second glance as she came up to him.

‘One way, please,’ she asked as she gave him her twenty shillings.

‘That’s fifteen for you, love,’ he said, handing back some change along with her ticket. ‘Here you are.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

Ronja moved up ahead to the back of the bus before anyone started asking questions, then hauled her sports bag up onto the nearest luggage rack.  She sat down by the window without looking round, broke off four squares of the chocolate she’d bought for herself with the rest of her change, put the rest of her bar in her pocket, then leant her head up against the glass with a sigh. Partly because she was tired and partly because it felt like something you were supposed to do. Though it looked cooler in the movies. In real life it was just hard and uncomfortable.

Two hours — more than two hours from Silverglade. With luck, if she looked ordinary no-one would speak to her in all that time. She could listen to her music and stare out of the window, thinking about nothing.

Ronja spent  a great deal of her time thinking about nothing those days. In fact it was partly because of her habit of thinking about nothing that she was travelling up to West Jorvik now. That — and other things. Like the not-even-trying.

That was another thing. Ronja always thought of not-even-trying as if it were one long word, she had heard it said so often during the last few months.  Her teachers said always been saying it at school, 'Ronja, you're not-even-trying,' taking relish in telling her exactly how terrible she was and how they were thinking of Contacting Authorities For Her Own Sake. It was written on her report at the end of term, regular as clockwork. And the headmaster said it too.

'It isn't as if there's anything wrong with you,' he would say. 'I mean you're not handicapped in any way and I'm sure you're just as clever as any of the others. But this not-even-trying is going to spoil your future.' And when anyone asked about her, which school she would be going to later on, and so on, she would say, 'I really don't know. I'm afraid she's not-even-trying. It's going to be difficult to know quite what to do with her.'

Hell, maybe getting excluded had been better for everyone involved. At least it saved them the effort of figuring her out.

The engine started up a moment later. Ronja watched, window vibrating against her head, as the bus drew out of the station and onto the main road, before picking up speed as the view turned from blurred glass offices and skyscrapers to highway apartments to distant suburbs. Then the buildings vanished, replaced by endless fields of greenery and faraway mountain.

She had a feeling she must’ve looked strange to any onlookers — a skinny scarecrow-looking girl who should’ve been in school, second-hand hoodie and beat-up sneakers and a mess of shaggy black hair with her nose in a pamphlet for some far-off stable. Sighing again, she reached into her pocket for her phone and switched her music back on.

It was her favourite song too, _Nemo,_ by a band called Nightwish. She’d loved that song ever since an older girl at the home had left her the _Once_ CD a long time ago, back when Ronja was still new and small and scared. Something about that album — that song — made her feel braver then. It still did now.

Brave enough not to start asking herself if this was really such a good idea.

 

* * *

 

It was late evening when the bus arrived at Silverglade Village, and later still when Ronja finally reached the first signpost reading MOORLAND, feet aching and covered in blisters. It had been blustery and grey all afternoon, and now in the darkness broken only by ancient street lamps, it had finally started to rain.

Apparently countryside Jorvik was bigger than it looked on the maps.

By the time she finally saw the yellow light of windows in the distance, it had grown completely dark. Still, cold, wet and umbrellaless, Ronja trudged on through the dirt paths that were rapidly turning into mud, clinging to the pamphlet in her hoodie pocket like it was the most precious thing on Earth. The sight of the lights emboldened her, and she even sang along a bit to the music she was listening to. Badly off-key, but still.

Maybe… maybe things would work out fine after all. She’d made it this far, after all.

When Ronja finally — finally! — reached the building, she was starting to understand what ‘soaked to the bone’ really meant. Her fingers had gone completely numb around the handles of her sports bag, like frozen little claws, and her entire person was covered in mud from where she’d slipped and skidded face-first into the minefield of puddles. The little roof over the door provided a little respite from the rain, but it was little use. If someone tried to wring out her clothes, they’d flood the room.

She almost didn’t want to go inside, knowing that. She almost didn’t want to go inside at all — it was late, they were probably closed, the lights being on didn’t mean anything, the last thing she wanted to do was wake anyone up. Even when she saw the shadows of people moving in the windows, she still wondered whether or not it would be wiser to just find some shelter elsewhere and stay there for the night, cold and rain be damned.

Up on the ancient wooden door, the brass horse’s head holding the door knocker stared down at her. Like it was challenging her silently. _You finally got here_ , it seemed to sneer, and _you’re giving up now?_

 _Shut up, you,_ snapped the voice in her head _._

Without thinking, Ronja’s hand reached up and knocked loudly on the door.

The sound seemed to echo all around her, far louder than it had any right to be. It almost spooked her. No response came, though. Ronja started to wonder if hiding somewhere wouldn’t have been a smarter idea even as her hand knocked again of its own volition.

This time there was an answer. A faint, off-the-cuff ‘Come in!’ came from behind the door, muffled by wood and distance.

 _Oh, I shouldn’t bother them,_ Ronja thought, just as the rest of her said _Sweet, let’s get inside!_ and turned the door knobs, pushing the door open with her shoulder where the wood had swollen and stuck.

And then she was inside, dripping all over the rubber floor mat, waves of gentle blessed warmth washing over her from the radiators. Whoever had beckoned her inside had gone off somewhere, but she could still hear the sounds of movement from the other side of the walls.  
  
Ronja let her eyes wander; it was not the sort of room she was used to. The carpet was very pretty and unusual, but worn bare in places that weren't covered by even prettier rugs. Beneath their leather and chintz, the armchairs sagged down into comfortable shapes, rather like old friendly horses. There were beams across the ceiling; real oak beams, not the plastic ones they'd put up in the home to cover the girders where they'd run two rooms into one. And there was dark panelling up the walls, instead of Vymura. They were covered in gilt frames holding pictures of people whose faces she couldn't see. There was a grandfather clock, too, one with a slow tick and a brass pendulum that swung languidly behind its little oval window. A fat hairy ginger cat curled up on one of the armchairs raised its head and peered up at her with a disinterested eye; another cat, smaller and white, was sound asleep on top of a wooden filing cabinet with its tail and one paw hanging down. Even the tiny reception desk was old and wooden, a bobble-head pug guarding the pile of papers, the wall behind it holding a corkboard with all manner of photos and drawings pinned to it like documents of memories past.

Part of her didn’t want to ruin it with her muddy presence, but her blistered feet were protesting too loudly by now. She dropped her bag and scrubbed her shoes as thoroughly as she could on the floor mat, before wringing out her sodden hoodie as best she could. Then she found herself one of the old worn leather sofas and sat herself down onto soft pillowy bliss, aching legs thankful for the relief. She felt herself sinking down into the sofa; sinking down into a slower, older time, poured out by the grandfather clock in this house filled with the smells of polish and flowers and leather and pot-pourri.

The walls were thin enough to hear conversations through, though. Ronja knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help but listen, even as the warmth permeated her freezing body.

‘Three hundred **_bloomin’_ ** shillings! That’s what they’re asking for him!’ one muffled voice was saying. A man’s voice. And shouting, rather. It was muffled, but definitely angry.

‘That’s not much at all,’ was the hesitant reply, this time from a woman.

‘Exactly. He’s a wonderful horse, Jenna, he’s worth so much more than that.’

‘Thomas, you can afford that easily. I don’t understand why you’re so angry about this, I really don’t.’

‘Jenna, those blighters got their little princess a first-class horse the second she asked for one, and the second she gets bored they vanish into God-knows-where and leave him alone with us. Just because he wasn’t a guaranteed prize-winner. And now they’re selling him for pennies, like he’s a bloody _used car_.’

‘Dad, please,’ a different male voice cut in, this one vaguely younger, ‘you’re getting worked up again.’’

‘...right. Right. I’m sorry lad. I just…’ A long pause. ‘He doesn’t deserve that. No horse deserves that.’

Ronja didn’t have a clue what was going on, but she felt intensely sorry for everyone involved anyway.

The woman — Jenna — piped up then. ‘Oh, Thomas, there was someone at the door — should I get that?’

( _Oh no,_ Ronja thought, sudden panic taking over.)

‘What? Who’d be knocking on our door at this hour?’

( _They’re talking about me. Oh God. Oh help._ )

‘No idea,’ the woman replied, her voice getting fainter as the sound of her footsteps got louder.

Ronja was seriously debating just getting up and running for her life, but the woman came into the room before she could even get off the sofa.

'Good heavens, you're soaked through!' was the first thing the woman called Jenna said, as she quickly sat herself behind the desk and did her best to look kept-together and professional.. She had pale blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing a woolly jumper that made her look like a bit like a salmon cutlet. 'What's a girl like you doing out in this weather?'

‘Oh, um…’ Ronja bit her lip, frantically searching her brain for the script she’d rehearsed all the way there. Without thinking she got back to her feet — more of a struggle than she expected with how far she’d sunken into the soft squishy sofa — and stood up as straight as she could. ‘Sorry, the… the bus took longer than I thought. I… um… I wanted to…’ _Come on, Thorinsson, you’ve been over this, get it together._ ‘I found this leaflet about the summer camp, and I wanted to sign up,’ she finally blurted out.

_Wow. Real smooth, dumbass._

As she spoke, she noticed that the the man — Thomas, she thought — had also come into the room. He was older than Jenna, much older, greying hair peeking out from under his tweedy flatcap. The rest of him was rather tweedy too — waxed jacket, green trousers, bright yellow wellingtons. Like a picturebook farmer. It would’ve been funny if Ronja hadn’t been freaking out.

The fact that the two of them then exchanged some very worried glances that screamed _You tell her first_ didn’t assuage her fear at all. Quite the opposite.

Eventually Jenna said it first. ‘Oh dear, um…well...’ she started, in that tone of voice adults used when they were desperately trying to sound reassuring. ‘That pamphlet’s two years old, dear. We’re not doing the summer camp anymore, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh.’

Ronja stared blankly into the awkward silence. Part of her was dimly aware that she looked every single cliché in the book — _face went ashen, eyes went wide, frozen solid, like a rabbit in the headlights_ — but the rest of her had just gone numb. Stock still, like the freeze-frame in a television show.

She wondered for a moment if this was what a panic attack felt like. She knew kids at the home who’d had them a lot. They usually got put in the Quiet Room when they did, but there wasn’t a Quiet Room here now. If she had a meltdown, it would be right in front of complete strangers she’d surprised in the middle of the night.

Again. ‘Oh.’ It was all she could say. Her mouth tried forming actual words, but all that would come out was just ‘Oh,’ over and over again. ‘Oh. Oh, okay. Right. Okay.’

‘Y’alright, hen?’ she heard Thomas’ voice asking her, but it didn’t quite reach until she felt a firm hand on her shoulder.

Reality snapped back. Ronja flinched away instinctively and gave a quick empty  laugh, holding out her hands in half-defense half-apology. ‘Oh, geez, that was—that was dumb of me, wow,’ she managed to sputter out, a sheepish grin on her face, words coming out in a frantic string of babble. ‘I could’ve checked, or somethin’—wow, okay, I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to bother—oh man, I’m an idiot. I’ll just. I’ll just, get out your hair then. Sorry.’

‘You’re not bothering anyone, dear,’ Jenna said, softly but sternly, fixing her with a firm look. ‘Listen. Is everything okay?’

‘What? Oh yeah, I’m fine. I’ll… I’ll find somewhere else, then go back home.’ _Don’t know how, but..._

Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Where? In this weather?’

‘Eh, I’ll manage.’ Ronja shrugged.  ‘Could be worse, right?’

It was meant to be a casual, reassuring statement, but neither Jenna nor Thomas seemed to take it that way. The looks they exchanged were ones of definite concern.

‘Look, be serious now, are you okay?’ Jenna asked her again. ‘Do you want to call your parents, maybe?’

‘No!’ Ronja exclaimed. A little too loudly. ‘I mean. Uhm. No thanks. I mean it. I’ll be fine.’

It was the way they were both looking at her that she hated. Half worry, half… pity. If there was one thing she hated, it was being pitied. But then she could sense the almost painful amount of sincerity that seemed to radiate through them — hell, the whole place — and she barely knew what to think.

Thomas sighed then, not exasperated but resigned. ‘Well, if you say so, young lady,’ he said, his voice taking on a definite fatherly tone, ‘but I’m not having you running about in this rain.’

‘Oh, you don’t—’

‘I insist,’ he emphasised, in a way that suggested arguing with him would be a very bad idea.

Ronja didn’t have it in her to protest. Nodding meekly, she hauled up her still-sopping wet bags over to where Thomas was waiting by the stairwell, then followed him as he walked up the stairs.

The rest of the building was just as old and worn and cosy as the front room, it seemed. Across the white walls were framed paintings of old countryside scenes, like nostalgic postcards from another time. Wooden vases of wooden flowers decorated the corners, rickety old tables graced the landings topped with embroidered lace, and folk-art-painted plates stood in rows across the shelves.

‘What’s your name then, hen?’ Thomas asked her after a while.

‘Oh. Um. It’s Ronja.’ She swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Ronja Thorinsson.’

‘Ah. Like the film?’

‘I guess?’ She’d heard of a film, but never seen it. Though apparently it had bandits in, which sounded super cool.

‘Oh, you won’t have seen it, I bet,’ he chuckled. ‘It’ll be too old for you youngins.’

At that moment, Ronja heard rapid thumping footsteps behind them. A second later, another girl, only slightly older than Ronja herself, came rushing up the stairs dragging a dripping umbrella behind her. She had a nose covered in freckles, and her bright red curls were decorated with colourful clips and a few errant stems of straw.

‘Evening, Maya,’ Thomas said as she nearly ran into him.

‘Evening, Mr. Moorland,’ the girl called Maya said dreamily, yawning halfway through her words. Then, after a second, ‘Who’s that you’ve got there?’

‘Someone the wind blew in,’ was Thomas — or Mr. Moorland’s — reply. ‘How’s the stables looking?’

‘Eh, fine, I guess,’ Maya sighed. ‘Justin’s just locking up now. Said something about the GED mooks lookin’ shiftier than usual.’

‘Bastards.’ The hatred in his voice was palpable. ‘Ugh. Anyway — here we are, top floor.’

Ronja just nodded, momentarily distracted by the old spinning wheel perched in the corner. Part of her kind of wanted to know what would happen if she actually did try poking herself with the… whatever the stabby part was called.

‘Alright then, miss Ronja,’ Thomas’ voice jostled her out of her thoughts. ‘You can stay in the room next to Maya’s — if she doesn't mind, of course?’

‘Oh, sure thing!’ Maya chirped. ‘It’s got, like, the _woo-oorst_ WiFi though. Just so ya know.’

‘O-okay…’ Ronja said nervously, watching as Thomas turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, before following him inside.

It was a dark narrow little room with just one tiny window, but it was still lovely. The small bed had a ruby patchwork quilt with golden suns embroidered all over it. There was a squashy orange armchair with a matching footstool and a red-and-yellow tapestry curtain hiding a clothes rail.

She gulped. It was far nicer than anything she deserved. ‘Um… I… thanks. Thank you.’

Thomas just smiled. A real smile. ‘You ought to get some sleep, hen, it’s getting late. You look exhausted.’ Then, turning to the other girl; ‘You too, Maya. Don’t think I didn’t catch you sneaking around last night.’

Maya groaned loudly. ‘Uuugghhh, _fi-ine,’_ she muttered, before shooting Ronja a sleepy grin. ‘Seeya later, new girl.’

‘Um… seeya…’ Ronja watched as the other girl disappeared into her room, heart beating hard against her ribs.

‘Breakfast’s at eight, alright?’ Thomas said, ushering her inside and slowly closing the door behind him. ‘Sleep well, hen. Oh, and…don’t worry. It’ll all feel better in the morning.’

‘O-okay.’

He smiled again, warm and kindly, then clicked the door shut.

Ronja didn’t do anything for a while. She didn’t know what to do. The seconds seemed to stretch into eternities as she stood there, like a statue, while outside the rain pattered on the window with its own hushing rhythm.

She’d felt brave that morning. Crazy, even. But now she was here, in the place she’d been running to — she didn’t feel brave at all. She felt like the smallest, most frightened girl on the planet. _I want to go home_ , part of her whispered, but of course there was no home to go back to. Not anymore.

When she finally moved to dig all her things out, it felt like her joints had turned to stone as she stood there. Most of her clothes had gotten damp in all the rain, but thankfully her pyjamas were still mostly dry. She wasted no time stripping off her sodden jeans and hoodie and finally getting something warm and dry on, before placing the wettest of her things on the radiator to hopefully dry off by the morning. Then, finally, she switched the lights off and fell into the bed, every aching part of her body crying in relief as it met soft mattress and warm duvet.

Ronja lay there in silence for a long, long while.

It was just so... _quiet_. All her life she’d been used to the sounds of muffled chatter, yelling, the sound of music thumping in the next room, the hum of cars and trams on the streets. Here there was only quiet, broken only by the hushing rain and the creak of the old building. In the distance, she heard something that might have been a horse’s whinny — ringing out faintly, then vanishing into the night.

Part of her wanted desperately to cry, to get the inky black storm of feelings out of her mind. Another part of her was fighting back any tears that would have come. They swirled around her head like a whirlpool until it hurt, even when she buried her face in the pillow and cocooned herself in the duvet to try and shut them out, willing herself to fall asleep.

Until finally, finally, she sunk into the deep dark dreamless sleep of exhaustion.


	4. the lonely grey

_My name is Aideen, of no house nor blood but my own. I have walked many paths, both of Midgard and of realms unknowable. I have crossed cruel seas and brought light to rocks barren as Hel’s kingdom, and I have fought greater scourges than man may know. In this my hundred-twentieth year, I am surrounded by idiots_.

— the _Áiðenssljóð_ (Lay of Aideen)

 

Ronja was woken up by a pillow to the face.

‘New girl! Hey! Hey hey hey! C’mon, get up get up get _uuuup!’_ squealed the overly-cheerful redhead sitting on top of her. _‘C’moooon!_

‘Uhhrhrghhh…’ was about the only noise Ronja managed to make. Groggily she opened her bleary eyes, rubbing the sleepdust out with her knuckles and taking in her surroundings.

She’d almost expected to be back in the foster home, as though the entirety of yesterday had been a weird elaborate dream. The red quilts she was buried under and the wooden beams across the ceiling fading into her vision, however, said otherwise.

That, and the redheadl in dungarees whacking her repeatedly with a pillow. That too.

‘Ghrrugh… stobbit…’ Ronja groaned, flailing her arms feebly against the pillowy battering ram.

Maya just grinned and stuck her tongue out. ‘Not till you get up, lazybones!’

‘Fine, m’up.’ With a grunt Ronja pulled her stiffened body somewhat upright — no easy feat, with the weight of one whole Maya crushing her legs. ‘Whuh….wha time’sit….’

‘Like, ten?’ Maya answered with a shrug, wriggling off the bed and back to her feet.

Ronja processed that for a moment, then scowled in dismay. ‘Y’said breakfast was at eight…!’

‘Well, yeah, but…’ Maya shuffled her feet awkwardly. ‘I felt bad waking you up that early. ‘Sides, there’s still a whole bunch of cold food left. Unless you were like, dreaming of sausages?’

‘Oh. Phew.’ Ronja sighed in relief, inwardly thanking the breakfast gods. ‘Okay, just. Lemme just… get… less gross.’

‘Sure, but you better hurry up!’ exclaimed Maya, practically bouncing out the door with a cheery wave goodbye.

Ronja sat there for a moment, staring blankly, as her brain slowly swam into actual consciousness and her limbs remembered how to move. Eventually, her memories of how alive-people-things worked came back, and she hauled herself out of bed and went to get herself together. Once she’d gotten dressed in the few clothes she had that were somewhat dry — her only jeans and shoes still depressingly damp, though — she left her room and jogged down the stairs back to the ground floor, where Maya was leaning against the wall.

‘Took ya long enough,’ she muttered, though she couldn’t hide the grin on her lips.

‘Um.’ Ronja frowned a bit. ‘Sorry…’

‘It’s _fiiine_ , I’m just messing,’ Maya said, sticking her tongue out playfully. ‘So hey, I didn’t catch your name? I’m Maya, but Mr. Moorland prob’ly told you that already.’

‘Oh, it’s Ronja.’ She didn’t say it out loud, but there was something about Maya that seemed to radiate happiness; like she had a tiny personal sun deep within her.

The way her face lit up whenever she smiled did nothing to shake that feeling. ‘Cool! I was gonna say I work here, but then I realised it’s not really work, cause I guess technically I’m too young, except it kind of is cause I do _loooaads_ of stuff around the place and get money for it, but whatever. Oh, and the eatin’ room’s over here!’

The dining room had a few rows of long wooden tables and benches, laid over with brightly embroidered tablecloths. Most of them were empty save for a few vases, but on the end of one table a couple of girls in pink riding jackets were debating something or other, while at the other a young dark-haired man was checking his phone while absently drinking coffee.

‘Hey, Justin!’ Maya exclaimed when she saw him, before jogging over and taking a seat by his side. ‘How’s it?’

‘Morning, Maya,’ he replied, glancing up from his phone.‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Oh, this is Ronja! She’s new here, came in last night outta nowhere…’

Ronja wasn’t paying attention. She was staring at the breakfast table, slightly awed.

There were jugs of milk and juice and a pot of coffee nestled next to a basket of fruits, mostly oranges, apples and a few bananas. In the middle was a huge loaf of rye bread so dark it was almost black on one plate, a pile of crispbreads on another, and a dish of bright yellow butter between them. In front of them were a bowl of eggs, plates of cheese and cold ham and sliced vegetables, and scrunched-up tubes of cod roe paste. A jug of thick buttermilk stood next to dispensers full of cornflakes and muesli and pots of fruit preserves and honey, a basket of bread rolls and flaky pastries beside them.

She contemplated all this for a moment, before grabbing several plates and piling them high with a bit of everything.

Maya’s eyebrows went sky-high when she saw Ronja plonk multiple sandwiches and a bowl of muesli on the table, then start shoveling the lot into her mouth. ‘Damn, girl,’ was all she said.

Justin just laughed, taking a crispbread for himself, spreading it thickly with butter and piling it high with an obscene amount of peppers. ‘Jeez, you’d think you’d been starving all your life.’

Ronja decided not to answer that.

A moment later, Mr. Moorland entered the dining room, looking to be in far better spirits than he had been the previous evening. ‘Morning, girls!’ he said when he saw them sat together, before coming over to join them. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Great!’ Maya replied chirpily. Justin nodded with a faint smile. Ronja just gave a thumbs up and grunted affirmatively through a mouthful of banana.

Mr. Moorland clapped his hands together. ‘Grand!’ he said, sounding greatly satisfied, before turning to Ronja with a sterner face. ‘Now then. Miss Thorinsson.’

Ronja looked back at him and swallowed hard.

‘How do you feel about good old-fashioned hard work?’

‘Um.’ She frowned, eyes wide. ‘Is… is that a trick question?’

‘Not in the least.’ There was a kindly twinkle in his eye. ‘Quite simply, Jenna and I were having a good long talk about you, and we both reckon the stable could always use another pair of hands around the place.’

Ronja’s eyes went even wider. Beside her, Maya just beamed.

‘So then.’ Mr. Moorland fixed her with a serious look. What d’you say to working here?’

 _ **‘Yes!’**_ Ronja blurted out before he could even finish. And instantly felt stupid.

He didn’t seem to mind though. He just let out a big hearty belly-laugh, before straightening back up and shooting her a stern glance again. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘It’s very hard work, you know. You’ll have to get up at the crack of dawn, most days—’

‘I can do it,’ Ronja said, staring hard back at him, silently willing for him not to change his mind. ‘I’ll work as hard as I can, I _promise.’_

The twinkle came back to his eye when she said that. ‘Wonderful!’ he exclaimed, clapping his hands again. ‘Welcome on board, Ronja!’

 ** _‘Eeeeee!_** ’ Maya squealed, tackling Ronja in a vice-tight hug and nearly sending them both flying. ‘I’m not the only girl anymooore!’

Justin just smiled. ‘Good job,’ he said, raising his hand for a fistbump which Ronja gladly reciprocated.

Mr. Moorland smiled contentedly for a moment, then cleared his throat. ‘Alright, you two, simmer down,’ he said. ‘First order of business — there’s horses to bring in from the field. Maya’ll know which ones. That sound good?’

‘Got it,’ Ronja managed to say. She felt like her chest was about to explode, both from joy and relief. She’d been expecting to get thrown to the winds again at best — nothing like this. Maybe, she thought, a surge of wild optimism overtaking her, maybe this was her chance. To prove herself, to start over.

‘Grand. Oh, and before you go,’ Mr. Moorland said as he got up to leave, ‘I’d get some wellies on, if I were you.You’ll be needin’ them, trust me.’

 

***

 

‘Trust me’ was _right._

When Ronja clambered over the fence to the pasture and landed in the rain-sodden earth beneath, the thick mud immediately sucked her gumboots in up to the ankles.

‘Gross,’ she muttered to herself, slinging the halters back over her shoulder and pulling her feet one by one out of the muck with a loud, disgusting squelch.

‘Least it’s not poop,’ Maya commented.

The sun had come back out after the previous night’s downpour and now cast its light across the field, glittering over the dewy grass. At the far end of the pasture, a whole herd of horses big and small was clustered together as they grazed. A few perked up when they noticed the two girls approaching them, and even more so when Maya whistled loudly for them. No sooner had they taken a few steps closer than they were surrounded.

‘Ugh, come on!’ Maya groaned, as several curious horses butted up against her. ‘You just got breakfast, you greedy pigs.’

Ronja just fought back giggles as one stubborn pony shoved its nose up her shirt in search of treats, while a fat mare lipped gently at her hair.

Maya wasn’t having any of it. ‘C’mon, you fat bums, _move_ ,’ she snapped, pushing the horses crowding her to the side with a well-aimed shoulder shove. ‘Look, if you’re not Bart or Victory, then scram.’

‘Are they always like this?’ Ronja asked, gently pushing the mare’s snout away from her ears.

‘Yep, basically. They’re spoiled, s’all.’

Ronja was about to comment how that didn’t seem to be a bad thing at all, when something caught her eye.

In the distance, seemingly ignoring them, was a grey horse. Its mane and tail were stark black, and silvery dapples covered its body. It seemed to be gazing out into the far field, its mind elsewhere entirely. Like it was daydreaming, if horses could daydream.

Something tugged at Ronja’s mind. Something… familiar.

‘Hey, earth to Ronja!’ Maya’s voice snapped her out of it. ‘I’ve got these two, d’you mind getting Aries and Firewind?’ She’d already put the halters on two horses — one a dark brown pony with a white splotchy rump, the other a tall spotty grey — and was holding them close by their leads.

‘Oh, um, sure.’ Ronja fumbled around with her halters, checking the name tags. ‘Um... which ones are they?’

‘So, Firewind’s that chestnut with the braids—’ Maya gestured at a ruddy horse behind her with its hair in funny little knots — ‘and Aries is the grey piebald. Y’cool with that?’

‘Cool.’ Ronja jogged over to the chestnut and, with some finagling, managed to get the halter over its head — though not without getting copious amounts of greenish drool down her sleeve. She clipped on a lead rope to what she hoped was the right place, then went over to do the same with the piebald. Thankfully, Aries was far more co-operative, though that didn’t stop Firewind from trying to eat her shoulder. Once she was done, she led them both over to where Maya was waiting by the gate.

‘They won’t try run away, will they?’ she asked with some concern as Maya opened the gate wide enough to let all four horses through.

Maya snorted. ‘Naaah, they’re too lazy for that. Hey, you go in front, Firewind likes biting bums.’

‘He’s pretty rude, isn’t he?’ Ronja said, going through the gate with the two horses casually following her along.

‘He’s the _wooorst_ ,’ Maya replied as she locked the gate’s many latches behind her. ‘But really, what’d you expect? He’s called Firewind.’

‘Sounds like a bad chilli fart to me,’ Ronja commented, smirking to herself as Maya burst out laughing behind her.

They walked towards the stables in silence for a while, horses trudging beside them with their hooves squelching in the mud, before something came back to Ronja’s mind.

‘Hey, Maya?’

‘Hm?’

‘Who was that one grey horse up in the field? The one with like, a black mane, and dapples, and stuff.’

‘Who’s what horse?’ Maya replied absently, before something caught her eye and she slowed to a halt, a stormy scowl coming over her face. ‘Oh no. Not this again.’

‘Not what again?’ Ronja asked, puzzled, before she saw what Maya was glaring at.

Some distance away from them, a man in dark goggles and a bright green hi-vis vest was skulking in the bushes surrounding the path. He had some sort of measuring equipment with him with blinking lights on, and he seemed to be taking notes on… something. Who knew what. Who cared.

Ronja frowned. ‘….is he spying?’

‘Nah. He’s one of GED’s mooks.’ Maya’s lips curled up in derision. She looked both angry and intensely uncomfortable. ‘Apparently they're trying to shove this whole stable off the land so they can make apartments, or something. Just... ignore ‘em.’

‘Right.’ Wordlessly, Ronja glared venomously in his direction.

Then, at the top of her voice:

 ** _‘Oi!_ ** You! What’re _**you**_ boggin’ at?’

The man startled, jumping up in alarm. Then stared at them as he realised he’d been spotted.

‘Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you,’ Ronja yelled, right at him. _**‘Fuck off!’**_

It took a moment to hit him, but soon enough he’d hurriedly grabbed his things and was scurrying away, looking distinctly panicked.

‘Yeah, that’s right! Go jack off somewhere else, shitstain!’

‘Um,’ said Maya.

‘Serves him right,’ Ronja muttered, scowling. ‘Perv.’ Then, still glaring where the man had been, she tugged the horses’ leads and walked on ahead, angry red thoughts crowding her brain.

 

***

 

The rest of the afternoon, to Ronja’s relief, was spent in the relative safety of the stable, well away from any strange prying men.

Ronja found herself doing nearly every single job that could possibly be done. She shovelled piles of straw and horse muck into wheelbarrows the size of small cars. She lugged haybales nearly as tall as she was on her back to the barn. She ran from stall to stall with buckets of water for the troughs and back to the well again. She hauled heavy saddle after heavy saddle from their racks and polished them till her hands were sore and reeked of leather oil.

Mr. Moorland had been right. It really was hard work. Somehow, Ronja finally understood just how all the stablehands in the bad romance novels the foster home owner liked to read got those rippling abs.

All she had gotten so far was straw in uncomfortable places and a sore everything.

Still, though, the bullheaded part of her pressed on.

The task she’d been given now was to groom the horses in the left wing of the stable, with Justin taking the right and Maya taking the ponies. It was going pretty well so far, she thought; she’d managed to finish three horses, and had only gotten kicked once. She’d even managed to sneak herself an apple or two from the treat bucket when no one was looking. Now, she was picking the hooves of a sandy-coloured mare named Malibu, who had funny zebra stripes on her legs and a habit of swatting Ronja in the face with her tail.

Through the window, she could faintly hear Jenna leading a lesson, calling out instructions to whoever she was teaching. Though judging by the exasperated tone of her voice, it didn’t seem to be going well.

‘Drop your heels, Chloé, come on!’ she could hear her yelling. ‘This isn’t ballet!’

Ronja fought back a smirk, setting Malibu’s hoof down and getting the curry brush from out the toolbox.  She was just brushing the dirt as thoroughly as she could off of the mare’s flanks when she noticed Justin approaching the stall.

‘Oh hi, Justin!’

‘Hey there,’ he said, idly patting Malibu on the nose as she sniffed at him. ‘Just wanted to see how you were getting on.’

‘Pretty good, actually!’ Ronja answered chirpily, showing off her filthy self with a grin. ‘I am made of mud!’

That made Justin chuckle. ‘Glad to hear,’ he said with a smile. ‘I was worried, to be honest. Most people get upset when stable work isn’t as fun as the movies make it look.’

‘Well, sucks to them. I’m havin’ a great time.’ Ronja beamed, more than slightly proud of herself. _Yay! I’m doing good!_

_Now to just keep doing that._

There was a while of silence as Ronja brushed furiously at Malibu’s shoulder, where a particularly stubborn patch of mud was refusing to come off. Malibu, for the most part, didn’t seem to care, preferring instead to nose greedily at Justin’s pockets.

After a moment, Justin said, ‘Heard about your spat with the GED guy.’

‘Mm.’ Ronja shrugged in reply. She’d nearly forgotten that already.

‘You shouldn’t go agitating them,’ Justin told her, a little sternly. ‘I know they’re infuriating, I hate them too — but they can be more trouble than they’re worth.’

Ronja looked up at him, frowning. ‘He was gawking at us,’ she said firmly. ‘Anyone of them wankers comes by again, I’ll fight ‘em.’

‘Ronja, they’re grown men.’

‘Still fighting ‘em.’

Just then, Jenna’s voice came through the open window. ‘Wrong diagonal, Julie! _Again!’_

Ronja snorted loudly.

Justin looked hard at her, a questioning raise coming to his eyebrows. ‘You know how to ride?’

Ronja shrugged again, pulling a face. ‘Eh... not really.’ There was hardly anyone on Jorvik who didn’t know how to ride, or who hadn’t at least sat on a horse’s back, but as much as she wished it was otherwise, her experience was limited to a beginners’ lesson on a school trip many years back. ‘I can… not fall off. And like, kick means go, reins mean stop, right?’

‘Is that it?’ Justin asked, puzzled. ‘How come you — oh yeah. City kid.’

‘City kid,’ Ronja nodded in wry agreement.

Another look came to Justin’s face, this time of amusement. ‘So,’ he said, ‘wanna learn?’

Ronja stared for a moment, blinking rapidly in confusion. ‘Uh?’ she eventually managed to sputter out. ‘I mean. Yeah. I’d love to. But.’ She pulled put the empty pockets of her jeans and shot him a rueful glance.

‘Oh, not officially,’ Justin quickly said. ‘Just like… on the side, y’know? I mean, it can’t hurt.’

‘Wait, seriously?’ The part of Ronja’s brain meant for Good Things promptly exploded, scattering confetti everywhere and screaming. It took serious effort to not scream out loud, too, though she definitely couldn’t hide the massive psychotic grin that had come to her face. ‘I’d love to!’ she managed to squeak, beaming like an idiot.

Something else had caught Justin’s attention though. A girl had come into the stable — or sashayed, rather. She rather pretty-looking, blonde hair swept neatly over one shoulder, pink jacket ironed to perfection, boots polished so well you could see your reflection in them, and her face was caked with makeup meant to make it look like there wasn’t any. She looked, Ronja thought as her elation faded, like every single clichéd pretty-girl villain in a high school romcom. Like a Regina George clone, the equestrian edition.

‘Hiya, Justii _-iin!’_ the girl sing-songed as she approached them, batting her eyelashes and tossing her hair aside.

‘Hi, Loretta,’ Justin said, sounding extremely tired.

‘How are you, oh my go—’ The girl’s mincing stopped awkwardly when she caught sight of Ronja. ‘And. Uh. Hello… uh…who’s this?’ She was looking her up and down the way you would something unpleasant the dog dragged in.

 _Well. Two can play at that game_. Ronja fixed the most unimpressed look she could muster right back at her.

Justin started, ‘Oh, this is—’

‘Ronja,’ she stated pointedly. ‘I’m new.’

‘Right. Okay.’ The disdain on Loretta’s face was nearly palpable for a moment, before she switched her voice back to syrupy-sweetness. ‘Anyway, Justin! You’re just the man I was looking for! Could you help me?’

Justin shot Ronja an apologetic glance before turning back to Loretta. ‘Sure thing, what’re you needing?’

‘I wanted to pay my livery fees, that’s all…’ she said sweetly, twirling hair around her fingers with a look of clueless innocence on her face.

‘Oh, yeah, sure. If you want to just come to the office…’

‘Oh and Ronja!’ Loretta suddenly said, making Ronja jump. ‘Could you tack up Prince for me, that’d be great.’

Ronja pulled a face. ‘Why can’t you—’ She stopped when she saw Justin making a frantic ‘shh’ motion at her. ‘I mean. Right. Okay. Sure.’

Loretta smiled at her, utterly insincere. ‘Thank you so much. Okay, office?’

‘Right. C’mon then.’ Justin sighed with relief, then started heading towards the stable’s office. with Loretta following on his heels like an overly excited poodle. Then, as an afterthought, she quickly turned and called out, ‘And don’t forget his polos!’

Ronja glared daggers at the girl’s pink-clad back as she disappeared round the corner, then threw down her curry brush with a huff.

‘Sorry, Malibu,’ she muttered, patting the horse on the shoulder as she let herself out the stall. ‘I’ll finish you later.’

 

***

 

Prince — just as Ronja had expected, nothing but the best for the princess, obviously —  turned out to be a fine white gelding with his mane in silly little braids and a tail chopped so straight it might’ve been cut with a ruler. He certainly didn’t act princely, though. When Ronja reached his stall with his rhinestone-covered bridle and the bright pink numnah with his name on them, he was half-asleep with wayward drool hanging off his wobbly lower lip,

(She couldn’t help herself. The urge to wibble that lip and go _‘blepblepblepblepblep’_ was too strong.)

The horse shook himself awake when Ronja plonked his saddle over the stall door, at least awake enough to move when she pushed him back so she could get past him. He watched her for a moment as she bent down by his legs and started criss-crossing the (also pink) wraps around his hocks as best as she could, then farted gently and dozed back off.

‘Rude,’ Ronja muttered with a roll of her eyes, before blowing a raspberry right back. She velcroed down the ends of the wraps, then frowned as she regarded her rather crooked handiwork.

One down. Three to go.

‘How’s that feel, boy?’ she asked Prince as she started wrapping another leg, hoping she hadn’t messed up catastrophically. Then, under her breath, ‘Is your mistress always this lazy?’

Prince simply looked at her with his soft brown eyes, gleaming with blissful stupidity. _Like owner like horse_ , she wanted to think, before feeling a little guilty. After all, it wasn’t Prince’s fault if he was dumber than soup.

Eventually, she finished wrapping all four of his legs, wonky though they came out. It would have to do, she reckoned; if that Loretta girl wanted any better, she should’ve done it herself.

(In the attention-deficit part of her brain, Loretta slowly morphed into Lambretta, and as Ronja lay the bright pink saddlepad on the horse’s back she debated the comedy value of just calling her a motor scooter for the rest of time.)

She was just doing up the throatlatch of his bridle when, from out the corner of her eye, she spotted something.

In one of the nearby stalls — though tucked off to the side somewhat, and surrounded by empty space — was a dapple grey horse, black hair over its withers.

The same grey horse that had been in the field…

‘Scuse me, Prince,’ she murmured, more to herself than anyone else as she eased open the stall doors.

The horse — a gelding, it seemed — didn’t notice her when she came to his stall. He didn’t seem to notice anything. Even when he raised his head form the water trough, he seemed to be gazing somewhere only he could see.

Ronja watched him for a moment as he nosed through his hay. Somehow — she couldn’t be sure, she barely knew the first thing about horse language, but instinct was instinct — he seemed… sad. Not sad in the way you were when something bad happened and all you could do was cry, but sad as though he had been lonely for a long, long time.

‘Hey there, buddy,’ she said softly. ‘What’s the matter?’

The horse glanced up then, slowly turning his head towards her in faint curiosity. He regarded her silently with dark eyes; dark and deep as a forest, almost.

‘Did they leave your stable friends out in the field?’ Ronja asked, keeping her voice low. The horse whickered gently at that, seemingly in response — as strange as that seemed.

She pondered over that for a short while, chewing the inside of her cheek. Then, after a moment, she fumbled around in her pockets for one of the treats she’d stowed away. ‘Hey. D’you want an apple?’ She took a bite out of it first, to show him it wasn’t bad, then held it out in her hand. ‘It’s good, honest.’

The horse raised his head, whuffed at her hand cautiously, hot breath ghosting across her fingers, before pushing his nose into her palm lipping at the apple—

_—and she saw great forests rushing by in a thousand verdant greens, stones glowing silver in the moonlight as the spells carved into them took light, black walls shattering like mirrors into smoke, a bright violet expanse of endless eternal clouds shimmering like rainbows in colours she didn’t know, would never know, and around her the sound of winds rushing through feathered wings—_

Ronja jumped back with a startled cry. The horse did too, ears pinned back, eyes wide, nostrils flaring as he huffed nervously.

‘Steady boy,’ she whispered, holding out her hands in attempt to calm both him and herself. She felt herself shaking, even her voice, but she couldn't let it show. Horses could sense things, that much she knew. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to—whatever that was— it’s okay, it’s okay, shhh…’

Slowly, gingerly, she reached out her hand again. He flinched instinctively, ears going back again, but Ronja managed to lightly place her fingers on his cheek, and—

Nothing.

Huh. It was… almost disappointing, somehow. The horse seemed to notice it too; he calmed visibly, and even turned his hand to nose at her fingers. Half friendliness, half curiosity.

‘See, boy? It’s fine. It’s all fine,’ Ronja muttered, more to herself than anything else. She let herself stroke the horses soft velvety nose gently, feeling the slow and even warmth under her hand as he breathed.

A part of her mind wandered idly, thinking of the dreams she’d had for so long, the things she’d held on to throughout her life the way drowning men cling to driftwood.

‘Nightwish,’ she whispered. ‘That's what I’d call you, if you were mine.’ _Though you never will be, really._

The horse snorted softly, seemingly in response. Like he understood.

A second later, though, reality hit. Ronja quickly glanced back at the other horses she still had to groom with a wince, then back to the grey — no, _Nightwish._

‘I’ll come back,’ she said firmly, giving him a goodbye scratch behind the ear before turning towards the other half of the stable. ‘I promise, okay?’

If the grey horse knew what she meant, he made no sign of it. When Ronja turned back, she could see he’d gone back to nibbling half-heartedly at his haybag. But in the back of her mind, something turned itself over and over like a tangling string, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had… _changed_ in the world around her.

Changed, and changed _permanently._


End file.
